


A Work of Art

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe), natalieashe



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Drawing, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is documenting the progression of Bond and Q's relationship by leaving stray pieces of artwork for Bond to find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



> Inspired by a rather lovely lot of 00Q drawings that cheered me up immensely.

Bond leaned against a desk in the centre of Q-branch watching the hive of activity around him. The minions reminded him of lab mice, scampering between their tasks, squeaking excitedly to one another. He reached absently for his cup of takeaway coffee and started when he felt the brush of something soft against his hand. Looking down he noticed his cup was now snuggled under its own duvet. A quick glance around gave no clue as to who had placed the white paper napkin over the lid and he plucked it off, intending to crumple it into a ball and toss it in the nearest bin when he noticed there was writing on it.

Or more specifically, a drawing…

The ink was blotched in places where the absorbent tissue had taken too much black, but the clever sketch brought a smile to his face. Surprised eyes stared owlishly from dark rimmed glasses under a shock of black wild hair. A smug smile and that appalling cardigan… It was a perfect caricature of the man standing in the centre of the room directing his empire with a wave of a tablet and a brandished Scrabble mug.

Bond had no idea who had discreetly placed it over his cup, or why, but he folded it carefully and tucked it into his pocket.

~00Q~

Bond finished his workout and stumbled towards the showers, stripping as he went and letting his sweat soaked clothing drop to the floor. He had been brutal, pushing himself to the limit and ignoring the pain that told him he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Standing under the shower he allowed the burn in his muscles to recede beneath the stream. Stepping back into the changing room he was surprised to find his discarded clothing neatly folded and tucked beneath the pile was an old envelope.

He turned it over, to find another drawing…

A simple pencil sketch, no more than a suggestion of lines, but definitely recognizable. A cloud of hair, a suggestion too long, and glasses slipped to the end of his nose as he looked down at a computer monitor. In the background, Bond himself with a curious expression. Even with so little detail the agent’s expression was yearning, almost wistful.

Bond snorted, tossed it onto the bench dressing quickly and heading for the door. He doubled back and picked up the envelope, sliding it carefully down the side of his bag.

~00Q~

Bond loitered beneath another painting in another art gallery. At this rate he would develop a taste for Turner. A student type in a parka sidled up to him and made some comment about the light on the water, and Bond rolled his eyes at his Quartermaster, holding out his hand for whatever he’d brought him this time. The usual black locking case and a slim white envelope, still no exploding pen. With a saccharine smile Q said goodbye and wished Bond luck. Bond still didn’t understand why they couldn’t just do the exchange in Q-branch like normal co-workers. He pulled out his ticket to check it, and with it came a piece of smooth cartridge paper.

A third drawing. His ticket fluttered to the floor…

Pen and ink, tonal, detailed. The Quartermaster on the desk, Bond caged by his narrow thighs, locked together in a kiss. Q’s hand cradled Bond’s head, fingers buried in the short strands of hair. Bond’s hand roamed beneath Q’s shirt over warm smooth skin. He assumed.

A faint flush rose on the agent’s cheeks. He refolded the paper, returned it to the envelope. Almost forgot to pick up his ticket from the floor.

~00Q~

Bond scowled at his superior as M paced. The uptight man appeared rigidly controlled but the twitch at the corner of his eye said he was fit to burst with fury at the train wreck that Bond had made of the mission. Moneypenny offered a file with a sympathetic shrug. M stabbed a finger at it, and demanded an explanation.

Bond flicked through the file, swallowed hard. He really didn't want to explain the picture tucked between the pages of the typed report…

Purple wax crayon, A4 legal paper. The thick grainy lines were no more than shapes. Bond’s shirt open, his head thrown back, the dark shadows of muscle definition and creased fabric drawn in careless fluid lines. Long thin fingers tweaked the visible crescent that suggested a nipple, the artist’s elegant hand shaped into a thin wrist circled by that damned cardigan. Bond’s hand disappeared into a tousled scribbled mess of hair, the hidden face pressed close to his belly.

Bond lost his words, his mouth dry. M had more than enough words to cover his stunned silence, yelling about explosions and apologies to foreign governments and irresponsible agents. Bond slid the paper unnoticed beneath his jacket. 

~00Q~

Bond unlocked the smartphone with a touch of his thumb. He tapped an app and waited for it to connect. The status changed from red to green and he was in, browsing locations on the internal server as freely as if he were in the building. He found what he needed within twenty minutes, began downloading and sat back to wait, huddled in the frost opaque car outside. A noise in his earpiece announced his Quartermaster coming online, and a moment later a ping from the phone as he received a new message.

A photograph. 

Not a photograph per se, a digital manipulation, skilfully done. A moonlit bedroom drained of colour apart from the naked bodies entwined, silver and gold in the fake light. Large hands gripped slim hips, the joining of their bodies lost in deep shadow and artfully arranged sheets. His face, Q’s face.

"Bloody hell Q" he breathed.

“Like it?” The quietly amused voice sounded in his ear.

“You’re a work of art Quartermaster. And your bloody art will be the death of me one day, or at the very least get me disciplined. Can’t you flirt like normal people?”

“And where would be the fun in that 007? Do come home in one piece. I’m losing track of the scars I need to recreate.


End file.
